What's in a name?

Disclaimer. I wrote this a couple weeks ago, when someone I knew long ago buoyed the recollection to the surface of my consciousness, and then I spiked it. Upon a second read, it seemed a little too ripe. Then, I saw a related Facebook page. I took that as a sign. I reread this and still thought the best place for it was on the hard drive.

That would’ve been the end of it except, out of the blue, I heard from someone else who had been involved. Now that’s an omen. Just not enough of one to compel me to post the item. But today, another friend from my distant past made reference to it. Who am I to test the fates? Read no further if you’re easily offended.

In a previous blog, I related that my ex brought up an error I committed over thirty years ago, and that there didn’t seem to be a statute of limitations with such things. I would think three decades was about the max, however. I would be wrong.

Recently, I reconnected with a friend from my youth. We exchanged a few excited and warm remembrances, and then she dropped the bomb. She added that she was laughing out loud and just about falling off her chair recalling it. Well, I’m glad at least one of us was enjoying it.

Rather than leap into this without context, I will set the stage. First of all, it was the early sixties. Words that are liberally trumpeted from numerous cable stations now were barely whispered in alleys back then.

To that, I will add that I had no sisters. And, my mother wasn’t one to volunteer information on all things feminine to me. That is, aside from “Watch out for those girls who will do anything to trap a husband, including getting you into bed.” Obediently, I was ever-vigilant for them.

In other words, I was oblivious to most of the practices peculiar to that tribe. This would include the associated nomenclature.

One last thing and something else I mentioned in a previous blog. Where I grew up (Philadelphia), I probably met a few thousand kids in my tenure there. Maybe a handful were known by their given names. For whatever reason, everyone was bestowed a sobriquet. I don’t know why that was. My theory is that it was to help distinguish among the fifteen hundred or so Tonys domiciled within the neighborhood.

Enough of the prologue. The incident was that Linda (“Squeaky”) and I were walking down the street. Rocco went riding by on a bicycle. He wasn’t from the neighborhood and Squeaky didn’t know him. I knew him from sports leagues.

Rocco was a colorful guy, in every sense of the word. For reasons known only to him, he was almost always clad in a loud, voluminous Hawaiian shirt. It could be church, a dance hall or a funeral; didn’t matter. You would spot him in a second.

As he pedaled by, he yelled out a greeting to me. I responded, “Yo, Douche! Seeya at the gym Friday.”

I turned to Squeaky to explain who he was. But, she was looking at me in a peculiar way.

“What?”

“What? What do you mean, what?”

“I mean what, as in, what are you looking at?”

“What did you just call him?”

“Douche. That’s his name.”

“Douche? His name is Douche?”

“Yeah, short for douche bag. That’s what we call him.”

“Because?”

“I dunno, I guess he’s a douche bag. The guy is a character. Why, you gotta problem with that?”

“Do you know what that is?”

“A douche bag?”

“If I wanted to hear that again, I would’ve said it.”

“Like I said, he’s a character. A real dooo…, uh, never mind.”

“You don’t know what it is.”

“No, okay, I guess I don’t. What is it?”

She made a couple false starts and then just told me to forget it. “Ask Lips, Stinky or one of those girls the next time you’re with them.”

“But, you’re not going to tell me.”

“Count on that.”

Lips was only too happy to educate me in detail, stopping just short of supplying plumbing blueprints. The subject never again came up between Squeaky and me, although there was a hint of tension in the air the next couple subsequent meetings. However, now she found it a source of hilarity.

About forty-five years later, she’s rubbing it in. There is no statute of limitations.